Glass Skies
by Silver Kitten
Summary: Completed! Tag for Devil’s Trap. Is it too late for John to finally realize that Dean and Sam should come before everything else?
1. Chapter 1

**Glass Skies**

Author's Note: This idea came to me after hours of crying because of the season one finale…this is the product of a fangirl who is unable to accept such painful realities as the one Kripke so generously left us with…

Disclaimer: Let's just say if I owned Supernatural, we all wouldn't be worried beyond consolation while waiting for the CW to pick it up for season two. I'd buy my own network and play Supernatural 24/7, along with anything Jensen/Jared related...

Warnings and otherwise: No wincest, just ample amounts of brotherly love. And no, this will not be a deathfic. Right now, I just don't have the heart to write one of those, lol.

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"I'm surprised in you, Sammy. Why didn't you kill it? I thought we saw eye to eye on this killing this demon comes first. Before me--before _everything_."

"No, sir. Not before everything."

Sam felt his heart flutter. Everything seemed to begin to freeze.

They were driving…then there were headlights…then an incredible force that knocked the breath out of him before he could scream. Glass shattered, bones snapped…silence reigned and darkness had overwhelmed him.

Sam woke up with a startle as his bruised and bleeding body slid out of the Impala onto the cold, hard ground. The first thing he set his eyes on was a wash of white light crawling around him, slicing the shadows before him like blade. There was glass and metal littered all over the ground and each broken shard sparkled in the distance like faraway stars. Then again, everything was faraway, now.

A single concept was etched in the back of his mind, against his pounding skull. It was because the way his body felt numb but tingled with pain. It was because the air around him seemed stagnate but swirled around him with a deep, pitying laughter. It was because everything and nothing mattered right now, and a dizzying contortion of reality was taunting him to wake up from this burning cold nightmare. It was because it made a confused kind of sense: he must be dead.

Yet, Sam's first thought was not of Heaven or Hell. His first conscious concern was not even about life or death, but something that meant more to him on some undefined level of conviction and priority: Dean.

_Where was he? Is he alive? Please, God, let him be alive…_

Sam tried to lift himself up, but arms did not support his weight and his hands slid against the wet grass and mud that seemed to swallow him, cut him. He twisted his body enough so he could crawl back around to the car seat and pull himself up that way. He had both hands on the car door when it suddenly whipped shut, and he felt his body fly back. Something was pulling him. Something had thrown him. He wasn't sure if it was good or not that when he hit the ground again he didn't really feel it. He shook his head, grappled with his focus and stared hard at the wreckage ten feet in front of him.

His family was trapped in that cage, lit up with the headlights of the enemy that seared his vision.

"Dean! Dad!" he let the cries scratch their way out of his dry, tightened throat. He had the perfect view from here of death, and the end of the world was just beyond the dark horizon.

"They were all that stood between you and I. And now, they can never keep me from you."

It was a chilling promise, cloaked in a hopeful threat.

_Not yet_, Sam prayed. _Not so soon…_

Sam looked up, peering over his shoulder and straining his neck, to see an older man staring down at him with black eyes. For the first time, Sam was entirely alone with the demon. For the first time, the situation was in his hands and his alone.

"They're…not…"

"Dead? Not quite yet. Dying? Oh, yes," The demon almost laughed, and there was a malicious tone to his voice.

"Please," Sam struggled to stand up, face the demon, witness the torment that has haunted him for so long by staring it straight in the eye. "Let them…go…" Sam paused, the words leaving him without proper regard. Really, he didn't care what he was saying as long as he could spare the life of those he loved. "Do what you want…with me…but let…my family…live…you don't have…to worry about them…anymore…"

Now, the demon erupted with a roaring laughter that made Sam's ears throb.

"Right…I let them live now, so when they devote every second of every day after tonight looking for you and track you down, they can kill me? Surely, you have more common sense in you, boy."

"Damn…you…" Sam clenched his fists, not realizing he must have cut the palm of his hand with a shard of glass earlier, and blood dripped from his closed fingers.

"Not to disappoint you, but you can't damn those who are already damned. Much like you cannot save those who are already dead," the demon's words echoed around Sam in the valley of night he was so trapped in. And then, orange and crimson danced together as flames rose up from the ground, circling the Impala.

"NO!" Sam yelled out, and continued to yell the word until his voice stopped working and he couldn't breathe anymore.

_Please—stop—don't—_

Sam fell forward, down to his knees as he watched in horror as the fire slowly consumed his entire world. Sam couldn't move. He couldn't run, could hardly stand. And it seemed to him the real Devil's Trap was not to keep evil from getting in, but to keep love from reaching out.

The fire crackled and sizzled and announced its victory so plainly and easily it was if the flames were laughing. Sam didn't believe it could get any worse. Sam couldn't fathom that his heart could shatter into smaller pieces. Sam was defenseless to escape the new, unimaginable pain that struck him bitterly as something other than fire pierced the night.

"_Sammy!"_ a terrified cry, a helpless scream and a desperate plea. _"SAMMY!"_ again and again, Dean's screams filled the air around Sam, suffocated him. His brother was crying out for him as the inferno overtook all that meant the very most to Sam.

And as such, the very best part of Sam was dying now, too. The part that always held on. The part that served a purpose. The part that fought against death, fought to live. All of it was burning away somewhere deep in Sam's chest, in his stomach, and his entire body was ignited with invisible fire. Pain traveled through him soundlessly, leaving only in tears.

"He's going to die knowing you didn't save him," the demon told him, and the truth of the words splintered Sam's soul.

Sam looked up at the black sky, and it began to shine as if made of glass while tears obscured his vision. He waited for a moment, expecting the worst of any nightmarish world to manifest now.

He was being taken to Hell and he knew it.

Sam shut his eyes. He did not care what became of him now, not really…so long as he no longer heard the cries of his brother which he could not answer. For that was the real tragedy. He wanted it to be over now.

"_**Sam…"**_

He wanted it to end. Dean's screams seemed so much closer, so much louder.

"_**Sammy!"**_

So much more painful. They needed to end. _Why won't they go away?_

"**_Sammy! SAMMY!"_**

So much more real than he feared they would be.

So real.

So close.

So close to where he wished he was…with Dean…

-:-

"Sammy!"

Sam opened his eyes.

The car was swerving on the highway, and Sam almost yelped with surprise fear when John took hold of the steering wheel. Somehow, Sam found his hands cupping his head, and his head was pounding.

Immediately, Sam slammed on the breaks and the momentum pushed everyone forward before the car came to a complete halt.

"What the hell?" his dad sounded nervous, but his tone was that of anger. "What's going on?"

Sam spun around wildly, seeing Dean lying in the backseat and looking at him with glossy eyes filled with concern. Sam just stared and Dean, and Dean just stared right back, and their eyes were locked, neither understanding why they couldn't look away.

"A…vision…" Dean murmured. "You had one…didn't you?" Even in his weary condition, he could tell the toll this particular vision had taken on his little brother. He'd never seen Sam shake so much, cringe so desperately. The other visions hurt but this one almost killed him.

Sam only nodded.

"Dean, please…save your energy—don't talk. Now, Sam, what happened?"

"Are you…okay?" Dean disregarded their father's order, needing and wanting to make sure Sam was okay. He did not pay attention to the disappointment tracing the rugged features of his father's face, only waited for Sam's answer.

"I'll be okay…but dad's right. Save your energy, please," Sam said quietly. Dean tried his best to nod.

John was getting impatient and worried, unable to understand yet what these visions did to Sam…what they did to Dean.

"Is that why you took your hands off the wheel? Why Dean shouted at the top of his lungs to snap you back to reality? Are they…that bad?" John asked. Sam rubbed his forehead, slumping into the seat and wishing he could disappear for while- just forget what he saw, what he felt.

"Not usually…but, God…we don't have time. We need to get off this road, but we need to get to the hospital," Sam pretty much ignored giving the explanation his family wanted, unable to waste the precious seconds ticking away at Dean's life if they didn't get him proper medical attention and fast. He needed to figure out another fast way.

"Wait, what? Why this road?" John questioned, looking around the empty highway.

"He's after us. There was a semi, he possessed the driver…there was an accident. I'll explain more later…right now, you have to _trust me_."

There was a sense of urgency in his youngest son's voice that John couldn't avoid complying with.

"All right…I'll trust you," John finished, knowing he'd get his answers at the right time.

Sam started to drive, deciding he'd take the next exit and go through town—hoping the cops might take it easy tonight.

Glancing in the rearview mirror again, Sam watched Dean as he stared out the window. He couldn't imagine how melancholy the world must seem to his brother right now.

Sam wanted so much for their father to drive so he could sit in the back with Dean. Even if Dean would argue, he just wanted to hold him, let him know he was there and wasn't going to let him go. He wanted to be right there next to him to make sure he kept breathing and his heart kept beating. Alas, he couldn't. John had a bullet in his leg, thanks to him, although he had no choice. Once Sam accepted that reality, the only other thought that burdened him was why his dad wasn't back there with his brother.

Why didn't John sit with Dean, hold him so he knew it was going to be okay and he shouldn't be scared?

After all that _he'd _done…all that happened…

_You're a guilty coward…Dean shouldn't be alone because of that…_

Sam gripped the steering wheel. His thoughts were wandering and right now he knew he had to concentrate, to be alert.

The demon was still out there, and even if Sam averted the car wreck, he didn't know what would be waiting for him down another road, behind another door. He did know that whatever it was…he would be ready. No one was going to die tonight- especially not his brother. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not for a long, long time.

As Sam prepared to turn on the next exit, he looked back again at Dean. His eyes were obviously getting heavier.

"Dean," Sam gently raised his voice. "Hang in there," he beckoned.

Fresh, red blood had swept over his brother's lips. His chest shivered with each inhale, shuddered with each exhale. And then, a moment later, his eyes shut and his head fell back in one swift movement.

"Dean," John called out after Sam let out a whimper without realizing it.

"Dean!" Sam cried.

But Dean did not respond.

Sam applied more pressure to the accelerator and sped down the road.

As he did, his throat shrank as he tried to swallow his fear. His heart pounded ferociously and his ribs felt like they were clawing into his stomach.

A very familiar set of headlights were glaring at him from a mile away…and the distance was quickly evaporating into the night.

"God, no…" Sam screamed so loudly the words were barely audible. He slightly bowed his head and stared straight forward, saying a silent prayer.

_Hang on, Dean. Please…stay with us…_

_Stay with me…_

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

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**To be continued…**

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_Well, what do you think? There's more to come, if anyone's concerned…A review would be wonderful to let me know what you thought about this. Please no flames- if you didn't like it, that's fine…just let me know why and if it's something I can improve on. Any comments, questions, all welcome. Thanks for reading._

_Silver Kitten_


	2. Chapter 2

**Glass Skies**

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's reading, and those who are sharing your thoughts. You know I appreciate it. Also, for this part…there's a lot of Sam/John angst I needed to get out of the way to make room for a lot of Dean angst in the next part. Also, it should be noted there are a few words of rough language used. And, for whatever is left a bit confusing in this part, I hope to clarify more in the next. Now, onward with the drama…

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-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Panic held tightly onto Sam's body. Every inch he neared the approaching semi was a heartbeat skipped. He couldn't get the images out of his head of his brother and father lying there, half dead. He couldn't escape the near-memory of watching the fire erupt and gulp down all he had left in the world.

_I saw it so I could change it…_

That had become his mantra. He had to change it. It could not happen. He could not lose _them_.

But how did he change it?

Did he go off road? Did he speed up and hope to swerve just in time? Somehow, a game of chicken did not sit well with Sam while Dean was bleeding to death in the back of the car.

And he couldn't turn around. He couldn't hope to outdo the semi truck in a racing contest and he wouldn't dare drive farther away from the hospital that Dean so painfully needed to get to.

He was stuck, and his time to find a solution was ticking away.

Then, something drove him to speed up.

_It can't happen…I have to stop it…_

And he accelerated.

The vehicle was closer. And closer. And closer.

John was yelling something, asking something.

Sam was struggling to speak, hastily trying to decide how he would change the course of such a dark and twisted fate presented to him.

Sam was going faster. John was yelling louder. That damn semi was getting closer. Sam watched. Sam waited. Sam saw it all over again.

"_**They were all that stood between you and I. And now, they can never keep me from you."**_

"_Sammy! Sammy!"_

"_**He's going to die knowing you didn't save him."**_

"_Sam!"_

"_**He's going to die…"**_

"_Sammy!"_

"_**You didn't save him…"**_

A horn blared. Sparks flew from tires, lighting up the midnight asphalt. The next thing Sam realized was the semi that so quickly and recklessly neared him was now screeching off the road, veering down a slope and tumbling and tumbling and tumbling…and then it exploded.

The flash of light and the wave of heat sent a movement rolling through the air. Sam tightened his grip to take better control of the Impala on the highway as it swerved from the blast. A grey plume of smoke reached for the stars and a fire roared in the distance.

"What the…" John gripped the dashboard, pulling himself forward to get a better view of the accident. "Did that…" he looked over to Sam, who was staring straight ahead. Sam didn't even flinch when the semi-truck crumbled its way off the road. Sam wasn't even looking, wasn't even curious. It was almost as if he was in some kind of trance.

"Sam?" John asked. Sam kept staring ahead. "Sam," John reinforced his tone to demand a response. Sam still kept staring ahead.

John hated the new silence that fell between him and his sons. He was losing Dean, and now it appeared he was losing Sam, too.

_Haven't you lost them already?_ Dark voices whispered to John…

"Damn it, Sam! Are you okay?"

It was then that John saw the blood trickling from Sam's ear.

And John then fumbled to grab the steering wheel as it slipped from Sam's grip.

And Sam's eyes shut and his head dipped forward, and the car slowed to a stop.

It was another moment of several this night, when John believed the world was ending.

He'd already come so far and lost too much, that losing either of his sons would be unbearable. A pain ripped through the flesh in his leg as he stepped onto pavement and made his way around to the driver's side. He wasn't sure how he managed the lift, or the slinging of Sam over his shoulder, or the gentle but heavy maneuvering of his youngest son's unconscious body next to his oldest. But, somehow, he managed.

Then John got in the driver's seat, and using his legs to the best of his ability, he started driving. He tore into the gas pedal like a lifeline. The hospital was never further from him.

His body felt broken in places, but he knew his son's were broken more, and, instinctually, that hurt worse than his own pain.

John forgot what it was to feel the pain a father should feel when his children are in danger, are in pain, are suffering. John forgot because he was always on the run, always moving away from their pain, away from them. He had been selfish and he knew it. Because when Sam cried or when Dean _almost_ cried, it didn't just hurt John- it damn near killed him. And John could not afford that vulnerability in his life, not with so much else on the line- like finding and killing the demon that took Mary away.

And as John drove, speeding down the quiet streets of the city, he'd glance back at his wounded warriors. He thought, in sick amusement, how with so much pain inflicted on them, that they looked so peaceful when they were together. With how broken they had become in this fight, when seeing them together John felt he was seeing them whole.

And that hurt, too.

The fact his sons completed each other as the other's family, and John was the outsider, the one watching from a distance, the one not returning phone calls, the one that even caused a rift between them.

Yet, John knew that he placed himself on the outside.

He kept himself at a distance.

He didn't call his sons back.

And he would forever bear the guilt of causing a rift between something so wonderful as what his boys had and could have and should have.

The truth was, John wasn't one to apologize, to admit fault. He wasn't one to say 'if I had another chance, it'd be different,' because they did not have the kind of life where another chance was possible or even conceivable. He wasn't one to say 'I did the best I could with what I had' because he _had_ the best and didn't do enough to keep it. He wasn't one to say 'if we make it through this, we can start over,' because _when_ his sons made it through this, John knew it'd be just the beginning.

And most of all, John wasn't one to tell his sons that he'll change, that he's made mistakes and now he wants a chance to make it up…because he _can't_ change, he _will_ make mistakes, and he doesn't _deserve_ a second chance.

Right now, for the first time in a long, long time…the _only_ thing on John Winchester's mind was the welfare of his children. And, sadly, even John knew that by morning- that could very well be considered a lie. He could never _only_ think of his children. He could never _only_ remember love.

He had way too much to hate, and feeling anger from hate was always easier than feeling pain from lost love.

Emotions were clouding his mind, unsettling his thoughts and ability to focus. After one more look at his sons, urging them silently to hang on, the rest of the drive was a blur.

-:-

John had to focus. The lighting of the room bounced off the white walls and cut into his eyes. He had to force them open, force them to adjust. He needed to wake up.

He needed to see his sons.

If they were still alive…

"Easy now, sir," a friendly but firm voice started to revive his senses. "You have some fine painkillers coursing through your body right now."

John's eyes were partially opened, and he saw a tall, blonde haired and blue eyed man standing next to him with a white coat and a name badge reading "Dr. Stevens".

"What…happened?" John hated the sound of his voice, the sound of stifled weakness.

"Well, a few hours ago you brought yourself in with two younger men, both unconscious. After..." Dr. Stevens paused to clear his throat. "You _kindly_ instructed our staff to help your boys, that wounded leg of yours finally caught up to you, I suppose, and you passed out."

"How…are they? The boys?"

"Tell me, sir, how is it they got in those conditions?"

The hesitation, the stall- it was like a needle in John's brain and he squinted from the harsh thought…_if they were okay, he'd tell me…if they weren't…_

"There was a fight…bar fight…I walked in on it too late…I don't know the rest…Just, tell me…how are they?"

"They're fine. The taller one had some tests ran. Doctors have yet to find a reason for why his ears had blood in them. He only sustained some mild bruising and scrapes, and is otherwise perfectly healthy. The other…he hasn't woken from surgery yet."

"Was it…extensive? Will he be okay?"

John knew it was a dumb question to ask, even if the doctor wouldn't think so.

Dean will never be the same, thanks to him…

"Well, sir…it was difficult. He was bleeding profusely with long, claw-like marks over his chest. Whatever bar fight this was…it was as if someone tried to sever his heart from the rest of him…from the inside, out…I've never seen anything like it. He's in recovery, now. With time, we'll find out the exact extent of his injuries."

John fell silent. He decided it was in his favor not to dwell on it. At first, he thought it was heartless not to concern himself with his oldest son right now…but if he thought about it for a second longer, he knew he'd go insane shortly after.

"My other son…he's awake?"

"Yes, he's in another room, resting. I must advise you, though…"

"What?" John asked as the doctor let out a sigh.

"Since he became conscious…he hasn't spoken. Not a word." Dr. Stevens watched as John grimaced in confusion. "I'll have a nurse come in with a wheelchair. She'll take you to his room. After that…I'm afraid I'll need you to fill out some paperwork…Mr.…?"

John was caught off guard and quickly pulled out a name. "Winfield. John Winfield."

-:-

Sam heard the door open. He heard the door close. He heard the rolling of wheels slide over to his bedside. He kept his eyes shut because he knew who it was, knew the questions he'd have, knew the truth he'd have to face.

"…They said you weren't speaking..."

"None of them would know about my brother…so I had nothing to say to them. All they would tell me I couldn't see him yet, anyway …You know? I woke up just in time to see them take him into surgery? I didn't have time to…say anything…"

"Well, uh…I just wanted to see how you were doing," John was hurt suddenly by his youngest son's tone. So detached. He wasn't sure how to respond to it properly. John wasn't known as a Hallmark card kind of guy, and heart to hearts were few and far between.

"I killed him." Sam suddenly said.

The words left the room too easily in silence, and John found it almost impossible to reply.

"Excuse me?"

"That truck driver…I killed him." Sam opened his eyes, but they reflected nothing of what John was used to seeing. He stared blankly into nothing, searching, hoping, for something John couldn't understand.

"Sam, look, I don't know what happened back there, but—"

"I do. In the vision, Dad. I saw it all happen…you and Dean, that demon…I couldn't let it happen." The void in Sam's eyes left John feeling cold, and he shivered involuntarily. Sam's hand was seen at the edge of his bed, folding up the blanket and squeezing.

"Couldn't let what happen, Sam?"

"You don't get it!" Sam shot out, the strength and depth of his voice startling even himself. "He killed you both! Right in front of me, so I had to watch!"

"Sam…"

"Damn it…When I saw that truck coming…I knew it was the Demon coming after us. He would have hit us, then the Demon would have set the car on fire and…" Sam turned finally to face his father, eyes still empty but slowly filling with tears. "That driver is dead now because of me. But, I had to kill him…before he killed you...before he killed Dean…"

"What are you talking about? That semi flipped over, you were sitting right next to me…how could you possibly be the cause of it?" John didn't understand why his voice trembled with anger, with confusion when he already had the vaguest idea that this was some giant secret he was being told, a secret that shouldn't have been kept a secret. A truth he should have known, should have _been there_ to know, but wasn't.

Sam looked hurt, looked frightened to say the words, so he put them in a question and hoped it'd be enough.

"And…how do you think that semi flipped, Dad?"

John remembered, while in the Demon's possession, the words he said…the things he knew.

The Demon knew his sons better than he did.

What was it he called Sam? Psychic Boy?

"You mean…you…"

"Yeah…telepathy."

Silence. And then, after a long pause…

"How often…I mean…"

"It's only happened just once before…"

By the sound of Sam's tone, John knew he better drop the subject…just for now.

Silence again.

"Well…the doctors need some paperwork filled out. By the way, our alias is Winfield. We were in a bar fight. Police will probably have some questions…"

Sam kept his silence, and John looked away.

"I'll…be back in a little while." John turned the wheelchair around and began to head for the door. When his hand was on the doorknob is when Sam spoke up.

"You never even asked…"

"Asked what?"

"About Dean. After he nearly died…you didn't even ask if he was okay. And that whole time we were in the car…you didn't even look at him."

"I didn't …I couldn't look at him."

"You wouldn't. And because you didn't, I'm scared to see him…I'm scared to go see him so…broken…and it's _your_ fault."

John's hand dropped from the doorknob, but he did not face his son.

"That Demon is the one who did this to us, to our family…"

"I'm not talking about that," Sam stated unsympathetically. "I'm talking about you. Begging me to shoot you, to kill you…as if that would solve everything."

"I did exactly what I had to do!" John said, and it was his turn to yell. "I did exactly what you would have done!"

"LIAR!" Sam shouted, and sat up warily from his bed. "Like Dean said, killing that thing isn't worth dying over!" He saw that now more clearly than he ever could before.

John forced himself to stand, numbness tingled through his leg that he ignored, and gave his weight to the other. Sam was quick to stand as well.

"Dean doesn't know _what_ it's worth!"

Sam took a few steps forward, narrowing his eyes.

"Like hell he doesn't! He knows exactly what's best for this family- what's left of it, anyway! Don't you dare say he doesn't know what it's worth…don't you fucking dare!"

"You don't speak to me like that. I am your father, I know what's best, and you disobeyed me! This could have been over, we could have finished it…killed that damn demon…"

"And you're okay if Dean died in the process? You're okay with the fact he's lying alone in some room after his so called father tried to murder him?"

"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you lately. Of course I'm not okay with that…you don't think I fought as hard as I could to stop?" John questioned madly, angered by the fact he even had to ask.

Sam gave a quick, small laugh. "No, I don't think you fought at all."

"What did you say?" John hardly whispered, taking a step closer and limping over to Sam.

"I think you knew I'd do it. I'd pull that trigger if you hurt Dean badly enough…You knew I would, all you needed was for Dean to beg for his life, didn't you?"

John didn't answer. John barely breathed.

The audacity of it all crushed him.

The near truth of it finished him off.

"It's not as simple as you make it out to be. And frankly, I can't believe you believe that."

"Well, believe me when I say this…the only reason I _didn't_ pull the trigger…was because _Dean_ asked me _not_ to."

And that was all Sam had to say.

The two stood inches away from each other, one muscle movement away from a hard swipe across the face. They stood eye to eye yet worlds apart. And for the first time in John's life…he backed down. He limped over to the wheelchair, kicked it out of the way, and Sam was left alone in the room, seething, as John slammed the door shut.

-:-

He didn't know why it was so cold all of a sudden. He'd been cold for awhile, but now he was near freezing, shuddering beneath foreign blankets with the awkwardly familiar smell of a hospital.

Only starting to wake up, his mind tried to process why he was there, why his chest hurt so much, why his entire body ached with a tiredness no sleep could cure.

He was only starting to wake up, eyes still shut, when he first felt it.

_Drip..._

Right beside him, it fell.

He stirred a little, more thoughts rising to his awareness.

Where was Sam? Where was their father? Are they okay?

He wondered if he should complete the process of waking up by opening his eyes. Part of him wasn't ready to wake up; wasn't ready to accept the possibility that this entire night was real and truly happened.

_Drip..._

Right on his forehead, it fell.

And he just knew…

Knew he couldn't open his eyes, knew he couldn't look up.

"_**Dean…"**_

God, no, not that voice…that voice that summoned Dean to always answer, always respond to, always wake up to…

_Drip…_

"_**Why, Dean?"**_

Dean tried to keep his eyes shut.

_No, Sammy…no…_

He didn't want to open them and see him there, above him, latched to the ceiling. But there was blood on his forehead, and he felt it trickling down his face, teasing him.

It had to be a nightmare. It had to be. And even in sleep, the pain hurt too real.

But he understood…the sooner he opened his eyes, the sooner he saw what he feared to see, the sooner he'd really wake up.

It had to be a nightmare.

_Drip…_

Dean opened his eyes. And there Sam was. His abdomen slashed, his mouth open with a silent cry for help.

"SAMMY!"

Fire rippled through the ceiling, circling Sam like a vulture, twisting around him and binding him to Death. Dean felt the heat, the very _hot_ heat that stole the cold away and cut through him violently.

"No! Sammy!"

"**He's mine now forever…"**

If fire had a face, it would grin. He heard the Demon's evil smile as it spoke; almost drown out completely by Dean's own screams. And Dean reached for Sam. He tried to grab him down, tried to pull him away, but something was pinning Dean to the bed as it was Sam to the ceiling, and Dean couldn't move- could only claw and claw and claw for his brother, scream for his brother- could only reach out to, but never reach his brother.

He should have known better. Sometimes the nightmares are real.

-:-

Sam felt it before he heard it. The screams. Screams he heard in a recent nightmare. But he had changed fate, hadn't he? He changed it so he wouldn't have to hear those nightmarish screams coming from his brother. Dean yelling for him, crying out for him.

Sam ran to the door, swinging it open just in time to see a crowd of nurses and doctors sprinting down the hall. A few of them were talking rapidly amongst themselves.

"_I heard they're having to sedate him…"_

"_They say he was calling out for someone named 'Sam'?"_

"_It's like he was hallucinating…like he saw someone on the ceiling…"_

Sam cringed and fought back tears as he started following the group, running to help his brother.

Of all the things Dean ever taught him, Sam wished there was one lesson he could forget. _Sometimes, the nightmares are real._

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**To be continued…**

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_Thank you for reading. Of course constructive criticism is welcome, along with anything else…but I can do very little with flames…which, I might expect a couple…The next part will be up soon. _

_Silver Kitten_


	3. Chapter 3

**Glass Skies**

Author's Note: Real quick- sorry for the delay. Real life sucks right now. Also, thanks for not letting my mistake of saying telepathy instead of telekinesis deter you. I stand corrected. Or, well…sit. Anyways, this part includes some of the angstiest stuff I've written…ever. Enjoy…

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Everything inside him was cold again. His entire body was shivering. All of him was freezing- except for his hand. His hand was warm. His hand was held. And he pulled himself out of his frigid slumber, the almost comfortable, extremely numbing sleep and sought out the source of the warmth. When Dean opened his eyes, saw Sam's hand holding his, it forced the rest of himself to begin thawing out.

He didn't want the cold nothingness anymore. He wanted to feel his brother there _with_ him, alive and warm and _there_—not bleeding, burning, dying on the ceiling. And Dean wanted to talk. He wanted to say a million things as he watched his brother sleeping beside him, head over his arm, hand holding his. He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to move the hair out of Sam's tired eyes. But he couldn't move, he couldn't talk. His voice was gone somewhere he couldn't find. And he was still so tired, so very tired, and trying desperately to hang on to the warmth and escape the cold.

Dean simply lay there, being as he couldn't move anyway, and watched Sam sleep. Probably passed out from exhaustion…

And he wondered how long they'd been there, the two of them. How long since that night—and what of their father? Questions lingered around his waking mind, striking against the walls of his silent prison. But he was okay for the most part. He knew Sam was there with him and so he was safe.

Suddenly, he felt the warm hand over his tighten, and Sam's body squirmed in the chair that he'd pulled as close as possible to his hospital bed. He might have moaned something, might have whimpered, a kind of quiet noise that Dean trained himself to listen for, to acknowledge, so he could put Sam back at ease.

He was having a nightmare.

And Sam was trying to wake up, but he couldn't free himself from the tormenting images. He couldn't save himself from the pain of the unreal—the unimaginable—but the very vivid horrors that always swarmed to his unconsciousness like a shadow to darkness. And Dean was aware of this. He wanted to wake Sam from his nightmare. But his voice was still gone, trapped somewhere inside a heavy chest.

Dean opened his mouth, shaping Sam's name but hardly an audible breath whispered from his lips. And his throat felt so raw, as if it'd been torn open to dry out.

_Sam, wake up…it's okay…_

He wanted to say. Why the hell did it hurt so much when he tried to talk? Why was it such a struggle to use his voice now?

Sam was visibly panicked now, trapped in his dream as Dean was trapped in his body.

Dean didn't understand. How could he be so weak when Sam needed him?

But he had to try. Again and again, right through the pain, he had to try…

"…Sam…" he barely heard himself speak, and a burning pain coursed through his chest as he spoke. It must have been enough, because Sam's eyes shot open and he looked both startled and relieved as he propped his head back up and stared at him. He seemed to shake away whatever bad dream had a hold over him, and that, for Dean, was worth the pain.

"Dean…God…" Sam blinked his still-drowsy eyes, trying to focus on his brother who still seemed to be waking up himself. "Hey…how are you feeling?"

"Hurts…to talk…" Dean puffed out. He put his free hand over his chest, wishing he could push the pain that erupted back where it was hibernating.

"Right…sorry."

"Doesn't mean…I'm going…to shut up…"

"Dean," Sam tried not to smile as he sighed. His brother had been through a lot. He really did need his rest. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"You?" Using his voice, the added pressure to his sore chest, was becoming something he was fighting through, but like all fights—he planned on winning.

"I'm okay. I've had a headache for the past two days—which is how long you've been out, but I'm okay."

"What about your…vision?" Dean was curious. One of the last clear things he could remember was Sam freaking out on the way to the hospital.

Sam's thoughts returned again to the demon setting the Impala on fire with Dean and their dad still inside. The flames, the darkness, the screaming…

Dean screaming…

Sam shuddered at the thought, and Dean took notice.

"Uh…the uh…semi…it showed up shortly after you passed out…and…" Sam found it difficult to state it. To actually utter the words, to give them voice and point them out to reality as truth. He used his powers. It was as simple, and complicated, as that.

"What?" Dean imparted a rough laughter in the question. "It hit us, we all died…and now…we're in hell?"

The wry humor of his brother didn't settle around Sam very well. He shook his head and took his eyes away from his brother lying there. He remembered the last time he admitted use of this strange power he still struggled to understand, to control. He felt Dean looked at him like he was a freak—more so than the general term they applied to themselves and their life. A _real_ freak. But, Dean was his brother, and as such he had a right to know. And, more so, Sam had to tell someone who would understand more than his father had. If not understand, at least accept.

"Actually…I…kind of sort of…tapped into my telekinesis."

Sam felt his brother's eyes on him, stronger than before, searching more than looking. He brought himself to retain eye contact again, preparing to see the awkward grief and confusion in Dean's eyes as he had months ago when the odd confession first came about.

Instead of awkward confusion and blatant fear, Sam was almost relieved and a little unnerved to see a kind of satisfaction gleaming in Dean's eyes, a kind of slick pride that shined like only a big brother could achieve. Dean's jaw dropped, half way curling into a curious smile.

"Dude, don't tell me…you flipped a semi?"

Hearing it from Dean, it wasn't as bad as Sam thought it would be. Hearing it from Dean made it sound a lot lighter than it was. Sam allowed a small chuckle to pass, but quickly resumed his most practiced brooding stance against the situation.

"Yeah, Dean. I guess I did…" _For you…_

"Wow…remind me…not to piss you off." Dean said, half joking and half serious. Sam stood up for the first time in hours, ignoring the dull pain stretching across his tall body that had crouched for so long against Dean's bedside. He wanted to throw his hands in the air, to throw something, anything, to just yell out. This wasn't a joke, even though he was happy enough that Dean could find humor in it. This was serious. It was just what Sam feared…

"You don't get it. I mean, I killed that truck driver," Sam pulled at his hair for a moment and then slumped his arms down to his sides in defeat. "I killed him…and I'm not bothered by the fact I killed to save you. You know that's not it…it's the fact I killed like Max killed. I am like him, Dean…"

If Dean could have mustered up the strength to stand, he would have. He would have marched right over to Sam and shook him—hard—smack the sense back into him and then hug him like there was no tomorrow. He saw the pain in Sam's eyes as the realization sunk in. But Dean knew it wasn't true. Sam wasn't like Max. Not the way Sam thought he was.

"Hey…shut up. You're…a killer like me, not Max," Dean took a moment to gather strength to continue talking. His breath left him a lot faster than he was used to. "Max killed out of…hate. But you and me? We kill…out of love."

It was that twisted Winchester logic and Sam relished in it. Months of worry, hours of grief and fear, all washed away with just those few words spoken by the one who meant the most to Sam. It was all he needed to hear. The justice that Sam stood for would always know that killing was killing, no matter what the intention. But it was everything else that Sam stood for, everything his brother and the Winchester family stood for, that intentions played a part and a part that really mattered. At least, it made him feel better to believe that. And Dean always reminded him of such.

He still felt like crap. But better. Dean just had that effect on him.

"I'm not going to ruin that with a response," Sam said, his voice slightly breaking.

"Good. I'm sure Shakespeare rolled over in his grave with…my speech there," Dean coughed a little before he found it manageable enough to laugh.

"Yeah. You're a real poet," Sam smiled. After everything they'd just been through, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to smile again. He took his seat near Dean again and sighed.

"So…how's Dad?"

And the smile disappeared again.

Sam shifted, every muscle in his body tensed. So overtaken by the joy of seeing Dean awake, it made him forget the fact that John wasn't there. Sam knew John came by a few times the past two days that Dean was unconscious, and perhaps he even knew it was his warning glares that he shot to his father as he stood in the door that made John continue away from the room. Still, being angry and bothered by one son shouldn't keep you away from the other.

_Even when he won't leave his side. _

Sam hadn't spoken to their father since the fight. And John hadn't said a word to Sam. Sam had to give him some credit, though. He did overhear John talking to Dean's doctor.

Still, Sam didn't want to bother Dean with the knowledge that his brother and father weren't on speaking terms…again. But he didn't want to lie, either. He knew the elongated hesitation to answer was bugging Dean. Luckily, he didn't have to answer.

"I'm fine, son," John stepped into the room, or rather, limped. Physical therapy was already proving worth the time for John, although it'd be a little while before he could walk the way he used to. Doctors tell him he's lucky nothing major was severed in his leg. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean flashed a small, but visibly smug and wholly Dean, grin.

"Kind of like…my Dad was possessed and tried to kill me."

John dared to return the token of humor with a laugh, but caught Sam glaring in the corner of his eye and decided that having one disabled leg was better than two, and kept serious.

"Really, Dean. You'll be okay?" John asked, taking another step closer. Dean did his best to shrug.

"I'm always okay, Dad."

"That's kind of a dumb question…" Sam couldn't resist the remark as it bitterly clawed out from inside him. It caught both John and Dean off guard. Sam immediately regretted letting it slip, but at the same time was glad he did. John didn't have the right to make this out to be anything less than what it was. This wasn't their typical forgive, forget, move on type of deal. "Dean almost dies, and all you ask is if he's okay, as if it's nothing?"

John grimaced.

"So first I'm the bad guy because I _don't _ask if he's okay, and now I'm the bad guy because I _do_ ask?" The oldest Winchester huffed out. He muttered a few words below a heavy breath.

Dean tried to sit up a little in his bed. Although he was seriously confused, years of hearing all the words that went said and unsaid between his brother and father had taught him well enough to know when they were in a fight. "Um, did I miss something?"

Sam was about to say something, but John cut in first.

"Don't worry about it, Dean. I didn't come here to fight. I came here to say goodbye."

The very word cut, stung, burned, and like an infected wound once healed had been ripped back open.

"Goodbye?" Dean almost choked out. Sam clenched his fists unknowingly.

"You need to rest so you can recover. But that Demon is still out there. Seeing what it's done to you…I have to finish this. I need to find it, now more than ever."

"No!" Sam stood up. "You need to stay here, with us! With Dean!"

"You don't understand, Sam. You'll never understand. That thing is still out there, and it will come back for us—for you. I can't let that happen. I can't just sit around and wait for it to strike."

"You're in no condition to go back out and hunt it down. And you know that," Sam argued a valid point. Dean just watched the two of them fight like always, and he was stuck somewhere in between.

"I don't have a choice."

"Don't give me that! You always have a choice. You always say this isn't the life you wanted for us, but it's the life you chose. You don't get to choose the hunt over your sons. You don't get to just leave!" Sam said defiantly. Dean looked at him, watched as he trembled with unbridled anger, and he shrunk a little in Sam's shadow as he walked in front of Dean and faced their father in a defensive manner.

This time, Sam was the one standing up for him. Fighting with the words that Dean always wished he had the strength, the ability to say. Fighting with the secret fear of what hearing them out loud would actually do…

"You want to talk about choices? How about the choice you made when you walked out on this family! How dare you persecute me for the choices I _had_ to make, the best choices I _could_ make, when you were selfish and ran away from it all instead of facing it like a _man_…"

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Dean couldn't believe what he was seeing, as Sam lunged forward, an unrestrained fist flying towards and swiping their father hard across the face. He watched as John stumbled backwards, taking brief solace as he impacted the wall with a force he could only identify with in his memories of taking off one hell of a pissed off poltergeist.

John was fast to push himself up from leaning against the wall for support, ready to raise a hand to his youngest son not only in defense but in his own wretched anger and sorrow and grief that he had no control over. And his fist held high in the air, his arm pulled back, and he watched as Sam prepared for the punch…but a muttered cry from his oldest son made him pause in his action. He looked at Dean, who stared into him with such a combination of horror and shame that it almost brought him to his knees.

"Stop…" Dean had said. Sam let go of his tightened jaw and relaxed his body, swiveling around and meeting Dean's gaze-switching back from him to their father. John slowly released his fist and dropped his arm to his side.

Dean heard enough. For years, he put up with the fighting, the disagreeing, that hateful comments. For years, he was stuck in the middle, the faithful mediator, the neutral bystander. For years he was a soldier, fighting for not the battle itself, but for his father's approval. For years, waiting for his brother to turn around and see him waiting, always waiting for him to come back. Dean has waited enough. He's fought enough. He's had enough.

"Dean…I'm sorry. But you understand why I have to go…" John was almost pleading for an affirmative response now, rather than the years that passed by where he could just expect it.

"Yeah, Dad…I understand," Dean began to say. "I'm tired of Sam and I watching you leave, wondering…when we'll see you…if…we'll see you. And if you walk out that door now—" Dean paused, glanced at Sam and then stared back at John, an unabashed sincerity in his voice. "Don't you ever come back."

There it was. Sam couldn't have said it better himself. Words that John had uttered as a cruel ultimatum to Sam just a few years ago, coming back to bite him in the ass, to feel the stinging pain they caused when spoken. Not just a threat, but a promise. Not just an angry father saying them, but a fed-up son, which in this case could possibly do more damage. And John might have expected to hear them from Sam, but not Dean.

And John saw the line that clearly divided the family. For so long he tried to believe that it wasn't there, there was nothing separating them but their differences, but there was something more. The bond between brothers was more evident than the bond between father and son. Part of John was appreciative of that. Part of him was afraid of that.

Sam made his choice long ago. And perhaps Dean had, too, only now the line was dug up and fortified and John couldn't pretend it wasn't there—that if given a choice, Dean would choose Sam. Dean would always choose Sam.

And John chose the hunt. He chose his revenge for the love of his life over his sons, possibly because he knew they were better together and did more for each other than John ever could. And probably because he knew revenge better than he knew Sam or Dean or family. And mostly because John was better at revenge than being a father.

Only because he wasn't afraid of monsters, but afraid of losing his sons. So it was always better if he kept himself less attached. But he never wanted it to come to this, not really.

He never wanted to push them away to keep them away forever. He just wanted a safe distance, until the fight was over. He never saw, until now, when he looked into Sam's eyes and when he looked into Dean's eyes, exactly what damage he'd done. He never saw it before. He didn't want to see it. And he couldn't look at it anymore.

Sam and Dean watched as the door closed behind their father, as he left, turned his back and just walked out. Dull nausea crept around in Sam's chest, and if he could spare a moment away from Dean he would have ran after. And Sam looked at Dean who didn't seem to take his eyes off the shut door. He couldn't help but wonder that maybe John knew he made a mistake and would come running back in, apologizing.

Sam didn't know what to say. He wanted to thank Dean for finally standing up to their father, but it just didn't seem right. It wasn't like Dean to say something so drastic. And Sam didn't want to imagine how Dean was feeling right now. He couldn't imagine how hard it must have been for him to say that. And Sam knew that he was to blame. If only he wasn't selfish, if only he chose to be the better man and step down, not fight with Dean right there as if he wasn't there—when he was always there. The hurtful words slung between him and John must have hurt Dean more, and it took all this for Sam to really see that.

Sam felt he deserved his guilt, his regret, but Dean did not. Sam would have given anything for Dean not to feel guilty.

"Dean…" no words could follow, and Sam's voice wasn't capable of chasing any down.

"I don't want to talk about it…" Dean finally said. His voice was timid but stern. The truth was, he wanted to talk about it, but knew it wouldn't solve anything, change anything. What's done was done, and that was it. And he didn't know what to say, either.

Dean struggled a moment as he turned over on his side, his breath stolen by the rigid movements, but Dean had to turn away from Sam…because there was a burning sensation in his eyes, and Sam couldn't see the tears.

Sam watched in agony as Dean turned on his side, his back facing him now. It was Dean's way of getting away from him without asking Sam to leave, and Sam could understand that. And he knew Dean deserved his space. He needed to deal with things, and he wouldn't want Sam's help…

But Sam couldn't stand it to watch as Dean started to shake, quiet sobs coming from somewhere in the corner of the room. And Dean would never admit to crying, would never allow Sam the pleasure of having a reason to hover over him and comfort him. It was Dean's job to give comfort, not Sam's.

Dean was supposed to be the big brother, the protector, not some crybaby who can't control the fact all he wants is to have a family that needs him as much as he needs them. He's never supposed to cry. And Sam's never supposed to see him cry.

A few more shudders from his older brother, a few more choking sobs and sighs, and Sam felt his own eyes well with tears. He knew he shouldn't, but he knew he should…and carefully took the first few steps to the other side of the bed. He saw Dean curl in tighter to himself, like a little boy huddling in a ball trying to escape the monsters hiding in the room with him. His eyes were shut, with shimmering tears falling from his dark lashes, his hands clenching the pillow.

Sam made his way to Dean. He knelt down beside him, taking Dean's shaking hands in his own and holding tight as his tears fell. Sam wanted to say something, anything, to make Dean stop crying. But part of Sam knew that Dean needed to cry, to let it out…because God knows what would happen if Dean continued to keep all his emotions locked inside.

At first, Dean flinched from Sam's touch, but quickly after he welcomed it, embraced it even. Sam tried to hush him, tried to hush his own tears and quiet cries.

"It's going to be okay, Dean…" Sam whispered softly. He laid his forehead onto Dean's, and Dean cried harder.

A lie was never so sweet sounding.

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**To be continued…**

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_Thanks for reading. And thanks to all who have read, and reviewed. I promise a happy ending for this story…and some redemption for John. He'll need it after this, I imagine. I hope to have the next part up quicker than this update. Thanks again for your patience and encouraging feedback!_

_Silver Kitten_


	4. Chapter 4

**Glass Skies**

Author's Note: You have ALL my apologies and then some for the extreme lateness of this post. Not only did I struggle with some real life issues- but I also went through a session of some of the **worst** writer's block I _ever_ had. I'm certain it's because of the wonderful and encouraging reviews and comments from all of you readers that every time I attempted to start this chapter it was never good enough-and I'm still not entirely sure it's good enough…but it will do. Some 30k words I trashed in the making of this chapter and two months later…here is the 2nd to last part. For those I haven't already lost, thanks so much for waiting. And belated as I may be, I do intend to thank you all personally.

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"He might come back…" Sam said. As he spoke the words that seemed so out of place to him, they were the only ones he could grasp.

The words just sort of came from a place less than conscious inside of him, an almost instinctual but so far buried need to say something that could prove a light for the darkness surrounding his brother now. He almost regretted saying them. At the same time, he appreciated the sudden, brief flicker of hope in Dean's watery eyes, even if that hope was quickly extinguished with anger.

"What would it matter, Sam?" Dean moved himself away and stared rigidly at Sam. His voice was bitter, not towards his brother but to the questions he was posing. "Do you want him to come back?"

Sam watched inattentively as Dean blinked the tears out of his eyes, once again putting on his too-tough-to-cry façade. And only Dean would be able to pull the dynamic switch off so effortlessly, from vulnerable to dangerously stoic. Sam knew he should be accustomed to the trained, older hunter's tendency to do so, and yet he was annoyed with it all the same.

"Don't you?" Sam shot out, a little unnerved at the defensive manner his tone took on.

For a moment, Dean didn't recognize his brother. It was the same for Sam.

"After what just happened? Were you not in the room a minute ago when he walked out on us again?"

Sam contemplated Dean's question as though the answer required thought when really he knew it was simple. Of course he was there. It wasn't so much the latter, rhetorical concept that Dean inquired about…but the real question. What _did_ just happen?

Over the years, through all the rebellious streaks and all the struggles Sam had gone through to gain independence, to be himself- to try and be normal- sometimes he'd felt their father prevented a lot of good things from happening for him. Even though Dean had been there, always behind him or at his side to pick up the pieces of broken dreams and rearrange them as best he could, he never understood why Dean was so quick to forgive their father. So easily had Dean forgotten the huge fight that had the three of them fuming for hours afterwards. So easily had Dean always stuck up not only for Sam or John, but for their family itself. For so long had Dean fought to keep them together, when they were ferociously pulling away.

And in just one, solitary moment of abrasive definition, of tiredness and shame, had Dean lost the battle he'd been fighting all his life. Defeat had crushed him instantly, and as though the last twenty years of drawing truces and peace bargaining between a father and a little brother had meant nothing...he let it all go.

When John walked out Dean went with him. The once 'good little soldier' retreated somewhere dark, became unhinged by loss and grief and died without victory and honor. Just like that, he gave up...and in doing so, he was not the same superhero brother that Sam knew he was.

For all the countless moments in Sam's life where Dean refused to let him lose, Sam knew he couldn't let Dean lose this fight- perhaps the most important fight of all their lives...the fight to keep their family together.

And if bringing back the soldier, the son of their father Dean worshiped, meant looking past the misunderstanding he felt and pushing aside the anger…he would do it for Dean.

"Look, we've had a lot of fights, right? Most of them were the same ones over and over. Some of them were bad and some of them were _really_ bad...and this one is the worst. But...I mean, we're all tired, we've all literally been through hell or close to it...we said things we shouldn't have. I know I said some things I wish I didn't..."

"But you meant them, didn't you? And they were true, weren't they?"

"Dean, I'm sorry I said them the way they came out. It was just…he was being so unfair to you, to us…I mean, you're lying here in a hospital, you lost a ton of blood…we could have lost you, and all he was thinking about was that damn demon!" Sam shouted, and he remembered why he was so riled up to begin with. He quickly composed himself and let out a sigh. "But maybe that's just one side of it…maybe he could only think of the demon because he knew it hurt you…If you really think about it, it fits his personality."

"That's your college boy interpretation? It fits his personality?" Dean mocked the words sloppily. "I appreciate what you're doing Sam, I really do. But you don't have to make excuses for him. Not this time…"

"What about you? What about my entire life that you spent making excuses for his absences, for his behavior?"

"That was before…"

"Before what?" Sam demanded.

"Before I remembered that our Dad _died_ in the fire that took Mom!" Dean tried to yell but a pang of soreness and strain in his throat reduced his voice to something just above a whisper. The remnants of tears in his eyes burned away. It seemed as though Dean sliced his heart open and the words bled out, cutting into Sam.

Sam had no arguments. He had no response but the nagging need to grab Dean and hug him, to bring him back to the days where John was his hero, when their father could do nothing wrong—at least without a good enough excuse to be forgiven.

"I'm done," Dean continued. His eyes looked heavy and he struggled to keep his head up. "He won't come back…he's been gone a long time and I'm tired of waiting for him, Sam. We chase enough ghosts in this life…"

Dean closed his eyes, relaxed his tired body, though he curled into his sheets as best he could. The conversation had left him feeling cold. And Sam knew he was exhausted and even if Dean didn't want to sleep, he needed to sleep. The operation also took a lot out of him so Sam wasn't going to prevent Dean from resting, no matter how bad he wanted to finish talking. It seemed for the first time in a very long time Dean had said something so real, so raw, so revealing…and Sam remembered how human, how normal his brother was…not just the unbreakable soldier he knew him to be.

Sam knew now more than ever just how breakable Dean was, how broken he'd become, and how desperately Sam needed to find a way to fix him.

Sam waited until he saw the even rising and fall of Dean's chest as sleep overpowered him finally to leave. It couldn't be too late to fix this, surely. There must be some way to find reconciliation with John.

So Sam set off, quietly and slowly at first as he gathered his thoughts and collected himself, trying to figure out what to say. He picked up his pace towards John's room the more his thoughts wandered into dark places…

_What if he really left, and they never see him again? Would it be so terrible?_

_But Dean…Dean needs his family, he needs his father…._

_I have to bring him back...I want him to come back…for all of us._

He knew he was angry at his father. He was also angry at himself for fighting with him in front of Dean. He was angry at a lot of things, really. But he loved his brother more than he could be mad at anyone for anything, and he knew what family meant to Dean. He couldn't lose his family because of arguments, because John would never 'get' him like Dean did…Sam had to believe that the man John used to be, the man John still could be was approachable to become the father Dean and Sam wanted him to be.

Soon enough, Sam was running down the halls, searching faster for John's room and hoping he'd still be there…because it was then Sam realized how much he wanted his father back, too.

But as he reached room 315 and saw the door open, sunlight spilling out into the hall and washing over the freshly made, unoccupied bed…he wondered why he had any hope at all that he'd be there. He slammed his fist against the door and stared into the vast emptiness of the room. A few nurses shot him a couple odd glances but went on their way without saying anything.

He slunk into the quiet room. A long, restrained exhale escaped him as he dolefully slumped down on the bed. His head cast downward as he fiddled with the air between his fingers, carefully mulling over the situation. Part of him felt guilty. For years he unwittingly pushed John away, when really he just wanted him to be there for Dean and him, to understand and approve, to allow them some kind of normalcy. And suddenly, with Dean making the final shove…John was gone. Sam didn't think he'd actually miss him as much as he did.

They'd tried apologies and tried forgiveness, they'd tried starting over and moving on, and they'd tried to be a family all for naught. Dean wasn't fighting for them anymore and Sam couldn't carry on the fight when their dad had already left. Defeat surrounded him. And how hypocritical he felt for wishing John was there, wishing they could say they were sorry even if they didn't mean it, when he knew well enough that he was the main reason John wasn't there in the first place.

And now Dean was suffering the most.

"Keep brooding like that and you're going to have the entire staff of nurses surrounding you, kid."

A rough but warm voice startled him, and he looked up to see Bobby standing in the doorway with half a smile on his face. He looked a little out of breath, slightly hunched over and grasping the doorframe for support with one hand and the other placed near his back.

"What happened?" Sam asked, genuinely concerned. Bobby let out a gruff laugh.

"I'm fine. Elevators were temporarily malfunctioning so I had to take the stairs. I'm not young and athletic like you, you know?" He answered, finally catching his breath and stepping into the room. He took a seat next to the taller man who looked awfully similar to a little kid who was lost in some giant world of strangers. "So, I got most of what happened from the doctor. Told him I was your uncle. I can imagine you had a not-so-friendly run-in with that demon of yours and that you found your father. Doc said there were three of you that came in. How are you doing? How's Dean?"

"We'll live. …Dean was hurt the worst…but he'll live."

"Hmm," Bobby nodded, steadily interested in the turn of events. "And your father?"

Sam kept quiet, wondering how he could break the news to Bobby…even though it appeared he already knew what Sam was going to say.

"He had business to take care of."

"Ah, I see. And what of you? You're not going with him?"

"I'm staying with my brother." Sam stated defensively, looking as though he wanted to add more but purposely kept quiet. It intrigued Bobby.

"Let me guess…he's back to the hunt and he's left you behind, is that it?"

Sam nodded.

"We had a huge fight…well, it was more than a fight. We just blew up at each other…and once again Dean was stuck in the middle. Then Dean told our dad that if he left…not to ever come back. He'd never say anything like that, especially not to dad. It just wasn't him, and I think it scared him. Hell, it scares me. I just…I feel like I made Dean choose…"

"How's that?"

"The past year we've been searching for him…all I did was ridicule Dean for having blind faith in our dad, for treating him like he was a good father. All I could focus about was how he disappointed us and left time after time…but Dean, he would focus on the better moments. Dean knew our dad before our mom died. He knew what a good father he really was and he always remembered that—it's what kept him going, what kept him fighting—reminding himself that one day the fight would be over and we could just be a family. I feel like I took that away from him, now. Maybe if I wasn't so negative...maybe if I knew dad before mom died...I wouldn't have been so hard on him. I wouldn't have pulled Dean away from him."

"Life's full of 'maybe ifs', Sam. It's natural for fathers and sons to argue. I didn't even speak to my dad for five years because of a fight we had once. And I hated him for a long while, blamed him for a lot of things that went wrong in my life. And sure, he was partially responsible for some...but so was I."

"Sometimes I feel so mad at him but I don't know why."

"I'll be first to tell you that you have a right to be mad at him. He hasn't made the best choices in the past...but sometimes you just need to forget that for a moment and look where you are now. Somehow, during the awful road trips and motel stays, he raised two of the most good-hearted and brilliant young men as I've ever seen. He couldn't have done that if he was all bad, could he?"

"So why didn't he stick around? Why is hunting more important to him than us?"

"That's something you're gonna have to ask your dad."

"That's not a question I should _have_ to ask him!" Sam shouted as a particular nerve was struck. He quickly lowered his voice and stared into a blank void. "...I hate him."

"I think you're just mad at yourself right now because you miss him. And you miss him because you love him, don't you? Or else you wouldn't be hurting this much with him gone..."

Sam was quiet, a bit unresponsive for a moment as he let Bobby's words register.

"I just don't know what to do now..."

"I know your father, he's not one to give up on his sons...but he is one to give up on himself. Even if history shows otherwise--he needs you and Dean like he needs air underwater. Give yourself some time to think about that. Really think about it. You'll know what do after that."

"You think so?"

Bobby clapped Sam on the shoulder and gave a friendly shake. "I'm fairly certain. In the meantime, why don't you go back to Dean's room. I'll get some coffee and meet you back there and we'll see how he's doing, all right?"

"Sure..."

-:-

Sam was once again left with his thoughts while walking the hospital corridors back to Dean's room. He felt a little better after the conversation with Bobby, but was still left nonetheless confused about the situation and how he felt about it. He knew what he wanted.

He wanted Dean to be happy. He wanted to be happy. He wanted their family together, even as dysfunctional as they were sometimes. But he didn't want to hurt anymore, to miss his father when he was near.

As he approached Dean's room door, through the small window he saw a familiar, shadowy figure with his back to Sam, staring at his sleeping brother. After a brief moment of terror, wondering if it was the demon returning to finish him off...Sam relaxed. The figure moved closer to Dean and sat at the chair beside his bed and Sam recognized him as John.

And he never missed his father more.

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**To be continued…**

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_Since life has finally calmed down (for the time being) and writer's block doesn't have the best of me…I will have the next and last part up way sooner than this update. In fact, it's almost halfway through and I'm really excited for it. And I thank you all **endlessly** for your continuing support of this story. _

_Silver Kitten_


	5. Chapter 5

**Glass Skies**

A/N: It's finished! I forgot what an amazing feeling it is to complete something. Thanks to all the readers, and for all the lovely reviews. You really kept me motivated to finish this, and I couldn't have done it without you.

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John quietly restrained himself from reaching over the bed and taking Dean's hand in his. He was sleeping so peacefully it seemed and he didn't want to disturb him. And John forgot what his oldest son looked like when, if only for a moment, all of the world's burdens didn't fall upon him. He could just rest. The only thing John didn't like about it was the fact he was in a hospital, coming back from being inches near death…all because of him.

He really wanted to tell Dean, and Sam, that he was sorry, and that he had good reasons behind all the mistakes he's made as a father. He really wanted to but he knew he couldn't. Because John didn't have good reasons, he didn't have apologies that could cure the ailment of a broken family…he only had a chance to try and say something meaningful, to try and fix things, to just try. He knew he didn't deserve the chance. He knew it was probably too late. But he knew he had to try.

Try, try, and try some more…

As though Dean had sensed his presence in the room, the urgency in the silence that John needed to say something, he fluttered open tired eyes. He scanned the room around him, and John didn't say anything, didn't breathe, only waited for Dean. When Dean found his father's eyes, staring at him with desperation and concern, he immediately looked away.

"Dean," John attempted to say something, but his voice left him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean sharply snapped with an easily detected sense of worry.

Truth was, John really didn't know, but he did know that Sam wouldn't go anywhere away from Dean for too long.

"He might be looking for me…but uh, more likely he's just getting some coffee," John offered, hoping his eldest son would accept it. A brief glance at the door, then to another chair that held one of Sam's duffle bags told Dean his father's idea was more than probable. At least, the getting coffee scenario was. John acknowledged Dean's observation and took the lack of verbal response as an answer that he'd be fine for the next few moments. However, if Sam didn't show up soon, he could easily assume Dean would take on the investigative, protective big brother role.

"I…I just want to…talk to you," John said. Dean hardly moved and didn't say anything. He kept his eyes to the door, hoping Sam would walk in at any moment and save him from their father, and crossed his arms over his chest in a typical, defiant motion. John recognized the tactic. "So, you're not going to talk to me?"

Dean didn't respond. His face was expressionless but his eyes shone grief and anger, the slow churning anger that warned of an explosion if not handled carefully.

"Ah, the infamous silent treatment," John mused, folding his hands together. "I understand that you don't want to talk to me. But I have some things I need to say to you."

Still, Dean stared at the door anxiously now. He let out a heavy sigh, looking as though words were boiling on the tip of his tongue but he kept swallowing them down. He would say something he may regret if he allowed himself. He was just so tired of yelling to get a point across.

"You know, when you were younger," John continued, speaking gently with a tinge of reminiscence. "You used to give me the silent treatment whenever you were mad at me. I remember one time…the last time, was when your mother…died. Once I told you she wasn't coming back…you shut yourself in. Well, you and Sammy in. You were hurt, and so angry because of it. And you hardly spoke to me for nearly a week—only when you had to which was usually when Sam needed something. And I remember…after that, I swore I never wanted to hear you _not_ speak to me again. Then, somewhere down the road…I guess I…stopped listening altogether."

Dean indulged his father with a quick glance to show he had his attention, but nothing to signify much interest.

"You have to know, son, that if I could have changed things I would have. If I could have given you and Sam the childhood you deserved, if I could have stopped Mary from dying…you know I would have," John faulted in the end of his words, his eyes wandering to the silver band on his left ring finger. "But Evil prevented that from happening. Evil destroyed your mother, destroyed our lives…and what choice did we have but to fight back?"

"Oh, and it's so easy to blame someone or something else for your mistakes, isn't it?" Dean finally cracked, sitting up in the bed as best he could with the thick bandages on his chest.

John didn't get a chance to reply before Dean continued.

"I've heard your excuses. Hell, I've made excuses for you…and yeah, we're the guys who kill the bad guys—I get that. How does that make it okay to leave your kids for days, sometimes weeks at a time? How does that make it okay for you forget birthdays, to forget to call and let us know you're safe? Or, hmm, to call _back_ your son when he calls begging for your help—or worse yet, dying?"

"Dean,"

"No! You know what? I think it's a good thing you're such a saint, trashing the Evil in the world. Because it's better to be a damn good hunter, a perfected liar…than to just be a lousy dad."

John didn't say anything at first. He was never someone who took a beating, verbal or physical, and just accepted it. He was a fighter, a Winchester…he didn't back down or allow himself to get rolled over and stepped on. He didn't let others put him in his place because he knew where his place was—out there in the shadows of the world, killing monsters and demons. At least, he once thought that's where his place was. Somehow, looking into his older son's eyes and seeing the gleam of sorrow beyond his years in them, he allowed himself to be stepped on. He accepted the pain that went with the sight because if his son had to feel the pain, so did he.

He didn't know whether to say 'sorry'. The word just seemed so pitiful, so lifeless and useless.

"Do you know why I left, Dean?" John asked and his voice was unintentionally firm to the point of sounding angry. He wasn't used to being reprimanded, especially by his well-trained soldier.

"Which time?" Dean countered bitterly, not feeling like complying with the drill sergeant in his father. John ignored the appropriate, but undesired response from his son.

"I was scared. I was losing you and Sam…I was losing you two after I lost Mary, and when I should have been fighting harder to keep you…I didn't. Because, along this crusade…I've seen horrors no one should have to see, things my children shouldn't have to see…but you did. And once I realized I couldn't always protect you and that, in fact, I needed to recruit you…I thought it would just be easier if I stayed at a distance…easier…because maybe you'd hate me."

John paused for a moment, drawing in a wavering breath. He forgot how cold he could feel when opening up after locking himself away for years and years.

"Dean…you had Sam and Sam had you. I knew you'd always stay together and protect each other…and I took advantage of that. You didn't need me, and I thought it wouldn't hurt me as much if I knew that. I didn't think it'd be so bad if you hated me…it might have made leaving you easier. And that would have made a lot of things easier."

Dean gave a calculating inspection of John for a few moments as if the man was a figment, not sitting there and being honest and telling, not staring at him like he was his father and not his commander in charge. Once he realized he wasn't having some odd dream, some wild hallucination, he took it all in. He conceded anger for disappointment, taking a curious approach with a childlike questioning in his eyes- so hopeful to understand.

"You do things and I just don't know why. Like when you ordered Sam to shoot you, to end it all? How could you have done that? Don't you know how that would have affected him…and affected me? How could you be so careless, so willing to die just for revenge?"

"It wasn't just for revenge."

"What else is worth _dying_ for to you?" Dean asked, as if anything John said now would be oblivious to logic.

"You!" The elder Winchester proclaimed with eyes wide in fear as blind images floated to his memory. _Don't you let it kill me…Dad…please…_ "You and Sam are worth dying for. I was killing you. I almost did, too…and how do you think _that_ would have affected Sam?"

John wished he could be angry with his son for being so insensitive to the fact he would do anything for his family to save them.

"I couldn't," John went on, his voice ruptured with pointed honesty. "I couldn't let you die. I could never watch my children die."

And Dean saw the sincerity in the words. They struck him with such force like a light in a heavy fog, splitting it open to reveal the unshaven stranger before him as someone he could actually recognize. And in that moment, Dean was reunited with his father.

John wasn't just the drill sergeant. He wasn't just the hunter. He was someone who you could toss a football around with. He was who Dean was missing for so long and fighting for even longer.

"I never hated you, Dad. And I never want to." Dean said quietly, but earnestly.

"Same goes for me." A third voice spoke up, causing the older two Winchesters to face the door where the youngest stood.

Sam stepped in hesitantly, walking up to the very edge of Dean's bed. He'd listened to the entire conversation. At so many points he wanted to burst in the room, throw his opinion out there…but it wasn't his place. He knew what he had to do- he had to let Dean open to John. Dean had a lot of repressed anger and hurt feelings because of their father, though he'd be last to admit it…this was something he needed to do alone…not that Sam would leave him completely alone. But at this point, Sam also needed to make himself known. He needed to show Dean he was there by his side, and by his father's side for that matter.

Like John's wordless apology, Sam and Dean make a wordless agreement to forgive and forget. They were Winchesters, after all, and speaking with actions was how they communicated best. John came back, and no one asked him to. To the brothers, that meant something more than a thousand apologies.

"Sam…" John whispered the name. He hadn't felt so overwhelmed in a long time, and it was making him sick. Why his sons didn't hate him right now, he'd never comprehend. But he supposed it didn't matter why, only that they didn't.

"Dad…we know how important hunting is to you…getting revenge for Mom. It's important to us too, I just wish…" Sam recessed his voice; feeling a bit like his tongue was caught. Feeling lost still in finding the words to say what he wanted.

"Things have to change," John finished for him, knowing well it wasn't fair for Sam to have to ask. "It should be like it should have been…"

"Like it can _still_ be," Dean added. There was a flicker of a smile in his expression, and his eyes softened with a peaceful gleam. John nearly laughed.

"Is that really what you boys want? After all I've done and all the mistakes I've made? You'd let me back into your lives?" John asked disbelievingly. Sam and Dean glanced at each other knowingly. A full smile came to Dean's lips.

"Who else would take you but us?"

And John did laugh, but it came out as more of a sob.

"We missed you, Dad," Sam said, and he was scared at how true, how raw the words were, but he was also strengthened by them.

And John didn't realize how much he missed himself, either. He didn't realize how much he missed his children until they were the ones who did the leaving.

John then opened his arms out and he reached up and pulled Dean in one and motioned for Sam to step closer. And when Sam stepped closer, he wrapped his arm around him and hugged his children, squeezing harder than he would have pulled the trigger of the colt when aimed at the demon. Because this embrace was not about death and revenge, it was about life and love.

And Sam and Dean hugged back, holding on tightly to each other, to John, to their family.

"Well this is just great," Bobby's voice broke in, not hiding a mocking sarcasm. "And I was looking forward to getting to shoot you, John. Had my rifle shined up and everything."

The three Winchesters reluctantly parted from the hug. John let out a small, friendly laugh and Sam and Dean smiled.

"Good to see you, too, Bobby." John said.

"Sam, Dean," Bobby nodded towards each of them. "If this man is bothering you, I can have him removed from the premises," he teased.

"I think we can handle him," Dean played along. He then involuntarily yawned.

"You should probably get some more rest, though," John stated. Sam gave Dean a look as though he agreed and Dean rolled his eyes.

"That's all I've done since I've been here!" He protested, even though he suddenly found it difficult to keep his eyes open. "But I guess a little more wouldn't hurt," he said after yawning again. On top of all the emotional stress and near-death trauma, he had a lot of drugs coursing through him. Over the years, he'd adjusted to working through the side-effects of powerful pain relievers, something he'd learned early on was important in their line of work. But he knew one day it would catch up to him.

"I'll stay with you," Sam quickly said. John half expected that immediate response from his youngest.

"What about you, John?" Bobby questioned casually as he shot a knowing look to Sam, which told him he asked it purposefully. John didn't expect it. But his boys were looking at him now, expectantly, hopefully, curiously. And even though he didn't expect the question, he knew the answer right away.

"I'll be staying."

"What about the demon? You said it's still out there, and—"

"The demon can wait," John said, fast to cut Dean off. "Right now, we need to focus on you getting better. Then we'll discuss where we go from there."

Bobby was quietly pleased--only asking the question to see if John was ready to stay, and so Sam and Dean could hear the answer.

The brothers were fast, albeit slightly suspicious, to approve what their father was saying. It had almost been as if they couldn't really believe it was John saying that. For so long, hunting evil was what came first in his life…and for too long. Saying one right thing for a million wrong didn't make up for their past, but it was an important step towards a better future. And wherever the Winchesters were going, they were going together.

-:-

Early afternoon the next day, Dean's doctor was able to release him from the hospital. Sam made sure he listened well to the doctor's recommendations to keep Dean as comfortable as possible and to further the healing process. He knew he'd be the once to enforce them later, as John and Dean were terrible at following doctor's orders.

The fresh air was inviting when they all stepped out into the hospital parking lot, Sam pushing Dean in a wheelchair. Dean would later make fun of him for doing it, but Sam wouldn't care because he's the one who volunteered. John probably would have, but when it came to Dean sometimes Sam only trusted himself. It would be something Sam would have to readjust to, allowing John to help take care of his brother. But he was willing to, and would rather adjust to a helping hand than have no help at all.

As Sam helped Dean into the Impala, John waited nearby with Bobby.

"You're real lucky, John, to have the kids you do."

"I know. I don't deserve them…but I'm not going to lose them again. Ever."

"You make sure of that. Or I have a bullet with your name on it." Bobby added jokingly, but kept his tone serious.

"Thanks for checking in on them. I owe you."

"Consider it a favor." Bobby said and lifted up his hand and dangled a pair of keys with a folded piece of paper, offering them to John.

John eyed them inquiringly as he accepted them.

"What's this for?"

"Keys to a place I have not too far from here. The address is on the paper with directions. It's cozy, but hooked up with every protection charm and device I have. Should keep you all feeling safe while Dean recovers for a little while. And you'll have some time to get to know your sons again."

John was at a loss for words of appreciation, his mouth agape as he searched for what to say.

"Hey," Bobby went on. "You've never been any good at saying thank you, so don't think you have to start now."

"Really, Bobby…you don't know what this means…"

"It means you better not screw up this second chance your boys are giving you."

"I don't plan to," John told him confidently, and he looked over to where Sam and Dean were and was overcome with pride.

He watched Sam finish situating Dean in the backseat, the two of them talking amongst themselves and laughing quietly for reasons John didn't know but couldn't wait to begin learning. And as he realized how many secrets and inside jokes and favorites and dislikes he'd really have to learn, he was suddenly overwhelmed and felt a burning under his eyelids. Through misty eyes, he turned his gaze up to the sky where it looked as glass.

Everything around him was in a blur of time, steadily continuing and moving forward, but there where he stood before his sons he was exactly where he was supposed to be. They were his foundation in the whirl around him. And he knew what it felt like to have that foundation swept away by vengeance and greed and anger. This time, he was going to be their foundation, too. And as a family, they could not be broken.

Once Dean was situated, he and Sam stared at John with patient curiosity.

"Are you ready to leave, Dad?" Dean asked, and John's glass skies quickly dissipated into a clear, blue horizon as he steadied his attention on his two sons.

He wondered for the briefest of moments if he _was_ finally ready; if he was he ready to start over, if he was ready to be a family again and if he could he handle the challenges and the promises that came with it.

A smile came to his face. A real smile, one long forgotten, last seen on a fading photograph as it burned in a fire twenty years ago.

"Yeah," John said. "I'm ready."

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The End

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_Thanks again SO much for reading. I hope the characters didn't seem too emotionally unstable considering I, myself, am usually emotionally unstable… All final thoughts, comments, complaints, questions, suggestions…reports of abuse? All welcome, of course. Now, is it September yet? _

_Silver Kitten_


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